


Unexpected Visitor

by Sarren



Category: Lucifer (TV)
Genre: Emotional Hurt/Comfort, F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-08-06
Updated: 2019-08-06
Packaged: 2020-08-10 11:35:30
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,137
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20134813
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Sarren/pseuds/Sarren
Summary: Lucifer finds Chloe in hell.





	Unexpected Visitor

**Author's Note:**

  * For [scatteredmoonlight](https://archiveofourown.org/users/scatteredmoonlight/gifts).

It’s lonely at the top. Literally. The top part, anyway. His tower is the tallest structure in Hell by an order of magnitude. Doctor Linda would probably say he’s compensating for something. She’d want him to talk about his feelings, about why he feels the need to isolate himself from his subjects like this. But she’s never met a demon (other than Maze, obviously, and she’s not exactly representative). Demons aren’t exactly the most convivial of companions. 

Anyway, the devil doesn’t get lonely. Lucifer ignores the ache in his chest, and absolutely refuses to think about what he’s given up. 

There’s something going on down below. He can sense it. They’re up to something. Well, of course they are, they’re demons, being up to something is part of their _raison d’etre._ But they’re being especially furtive, as though they’re trying to conceal something from Him, their King, and that’s just _not on._

He steps off the ledge and descends unhurriedly towards the depths, allowing his suit jacket to billow ever so slightly behind him, despite the complete lack of wind. There’s no air in Hell.

The unwashed masses gaze up at him admiringly. He has to admit, as much as he doesn’t want to be here, there are perks to being the King of Hell, and one of them is basking in the adoration of his subjects. Sure, they’re demons, and can absolutely be relied on to stab one in the back, as demonstrated by recent unfortunate events, but he doesn’t really blame Dromos, or Squee. A scorpion (or demon in this case) can’t change its nature. No, he takes it back, he does blame Squee. Squee’s level of doucheness is extreme even by demonic standards. Squee makes him wish for a pit even deeper than that of Hell, just so he could toss Squee into it. A Hell for demons. Or wait, would that be Heaven? Perhaps there’s a way. Worth thinking some more about, later. It’s not like he has much else to occupy himself with.

“Your majesty.” A demon with sharp claws and shiny polished scales bows before him. “How can we please you today?” There’s a lascivious glint in the demon’s six shark eyes. And that’s something new right there. One thing he’s noticed about Hell since his return is the way the lower level demons have been influenced, not to say corrupted, by the humans. And that’s some irony for you, right there. 

Lucifer’s not against the gen pop’s new enthusiasm towards sex, per se, and Dad knows he’s the least judgemental being when it comes to what people get up to in the bedroom (or sauna, or bathroom cubicle, or foul nest), but count on demons to find a way to make even sex unappealing. Lucifer turns his gaze away from a group of writhing limbs and tentacles and… is that _viscera_? with an internal shudder.

He thinks wistfully of the beautiful humans that graced his bed during his brief sojourn on the earthly plane, and then, inevitably, of the Detective gazing up at him, all the world and her heart in her eyes, finally admitting her lo—

“What’s going on?” he drawls, straightening his infinitesimally crooked collar with a snap.

“Your majesty,” the scaly genitaled demon says again, as it wrings its hands (claws) and bows so low its chest practically scrapes along the ground. “I am sorry to report that there appears to have been a minor oversight by the Intake Department. The lowly demon responsible has of course been torn limb from limb.”

There’s the echo of an inhuman despairing scream behind his words.

“Why bother me with a minor oversight you say you’ve already dealt with?” Lucifer asks, letting his eyes drift casually around the cavernous hall. Light from the torches lining the wall illuminate the ichor dripping down the stone walls. Underfoot, something squelches. And then moans. Lucifer rolls his eyes. Demons do like their atmosphere. Just as well they don’t get to go up top, he’d hate to think what they’d interior design nightmare they’d come up with after watching a few episodes of Grand Designs. 

“Ah, you see, the human involved…”

“Yes?”

“Obviously, had I known—”

The hairs at the back of his neck are prickling. Lucifer reaches out and lifts the demon by what he, by a process of elimination, decides is its neck, and dangles it in the air. It’s hind claws scrabble against the stone floor.

“Tell me,” he roars, and his wings snap the not-air. Great, another suit ruined. Oh, it’s repairing itself even as his form subsides back to its human shape, but it won’t _feel_ the same.

“Your majesty, please,” the demon gasps, as the bones under his fingers start to snap, and acid oozes over his fingers.

He drops the demon and takes a step back, taking out his pocket handkerchief to wipe his hands. The gesture is habitual, soothing. He gives the fabric a quick shake to disappear the muck and arranges it carefully back into place. “Out with it.”

“The human… I’ve been informed you are acquainted with it. I was about to send an imp to request an audience.”

“I’m acquainted with a lot of humans. I can’t think of any whose ultimate downward destination requires my personal attention.” Hmm, there was that supermodel who’d been sneaking sugar pills into her rivals’ health shakes, but Lucifer was 50/50 on whether that rated a punishment or a reward, anyway. Dan the Douche, perhaps. There’s no stopping his downward plummet—the moron’s apparently never met a moral choice he didn’t screw up. Lucifer’s been planning on making the Dan’s time in Hell as cushy as could be reasonably expected, for his offspring’s sake.

The demon pulls a note out from the pocket of its incongruously immaculate velvet jacket and squints at it. “Ch-low-ee—,” it sounds out, and then squawks as Lucifer grabs the note with a snarl.

In a way it’s reassuring to know that his heart still beats, even if it’s thudding so hard now that he’s surprised it doesn’t drown out the sound of the cringing demon’s spluttering. He knows what the paper reads before he deciphers the scratches.

“WHERE?” Even as the word leaves his mouth, he’s expanding his consciousness throughout the hell dimension, cursing himself for allowing himself to assume in his subjects obedience for a single moment. “_Dromos,” _ he snarls, as his mind flows through time loop after time loop, his heart sinking at every oblivious guilt-ridden human that isn’t Chloe, spreading towards the torture pits. Fear is a sour taste on his tongue. If any pestilent demon has laid so much as a foreclaw on Chloe, their suffering will dwarf anything previously seen in Hell—

And then, the blessed relief as his consciousness touches a soul he’d recognise anywhere, a soul so true, so pure, so beloved. 

So tormented. Her anguish flows into him; he hadn’t been prepared for its intensity, the way his entire being reaching for her soul would open himself up to her pain. Her suffering is his now, and the intensity threatens to bring him to his knees. His physical form is shaking, a dangerous show of weakness. Lucifer straightens, and, gritting his teeth, projects his consciousness forward, wrapping himself around Chloe, projecting warmth and comfort as best as he can. He narrows his focus to zero in on her location even as his form expands again. His wings snap to their full extension and then he’s hurling himself into the air. “I’m coming, Detective,” he murmurs.

He hits the ground so hard that the shockwave actually causes nearby demons to stagger, but he notices that only in the back of his consciousness, the part of him that monitors everything around him, everything in his domain. He doesn’t stop to look through the window to the Detective’s own personal room in Hell. He’s ripping the door off its hinges even before his wings have fully retracted and stepping through, stepping into _déjà vu._ It’s the Mayan, of course it is, and the room is littered with the discarded bodies of the humans the demons had taken as hosts. 

In the middle of the room, on the stage where Lucifer had so recently been forced to reassert his authority over his subjects, a small figure is crouched, her shoulders hunched, her head bowed over the body of a man—his body, he sees as he gets closer. She hasn’t looked up at his dramatic entrance; she hasn’t registered his presence. The anguish radiates from her. 

Oh, this is the perfect torture loop, indeed. He’ll be sure to compliment the demon who devised it, just before he rips its limbs off and feeds them to it for its presumption, for thinking it can do this to his Chloe and get away with it. Oh, he’s going to have fun devising an all new Hell for that demon. 

That snivelling traitorous conspirator will have to wait, though. Chloe’s torment pervades the air around him, filling the room, feeding on itself like an echo chamber of pain, soaking back into her. Soaking into him in a way that’s new and unpleasant, and he shouldn’t be affected. Just another way he’s vulnerable to her, but he finds himself grateful for it. Grateful for any connection.

Right now, all he can think about is reaching the Detective, putting an end to this Dad-awful anguish that’s stealing his breath. He can’t bear to think of her suffering, of how long she’s been trapped. He steps over the bodies, or in the case of one particularly congested area of the floor directly between himself and the Detective, onto them. 

He leaps on to the stage and then finds himself hesitating. What if she’s too far gone? There are eyes on him, he knows. Calculating, assessing. Looking greedily for any hint of weakness. He can’t be bothered with them now. He almost hopes they try something, give him an excuse to exorcise his rage upon those who would dare to provoke HIM.

He crouches down beside her. “Detective,” he murmurs. She doesn’t look up, doesn’t acknowledge him. “Detective,” he says, more insistently, and when she still doesn’t respond, Lucifer slowly reaches out to touch her cheek with his fingertips. Still no response. He strokes her skin tenderly, then lets his fingers trail down to rest under her chin. Gently, he applies pressure, tilting her chin, urging her to look up.

Finally, _finally,_ the Detective appears to come back from wherever she was, at least a little. Her eyes wander for a few moments and then pause on his face and for a frankly terrifying moment she doesn’t appear to know him. Lucifer thinks, that’s it, she’s gone, and he then thinks, quite clearly, quite coldly, quite calmly, that he’s going to tear Hell itself apart with his bare talons for what they’ve done to Chloe. But then the Detective gasps, and her focus sharpens. “Lucifer,” she croaks. She falls forward, into his arms, and Lucifer holds her while she silently shakes, murmuring reassurances, crooning to her, enfolding her within the safety of his wings.

There are eyes on them, thousands of eyes, prurient, and cruel and intent. He quells an instinctive urge to lash out, to punish those who would presume to judge him. Eventually the shaking stops, and he can almost feel the way she gathers her strength and her courage around her—his indomitable Detective—and draws back to look up at him. “You’re alive?” she says, wonderingly. “You’re really alive?”

“Certainly am, Detective,” he says, smiling at her reassuringly.

“I thought…” She starts to turn, as though to look down. 

He clasps her face between his hands, infinitely gently, keeping her still, keeping her eyes on him. “It was just a dream,” he murmurs. “I’m here, as you can see, handsome Devil that I am, at your disposal,” he says, and allows himself to smile his most beguiling smile at her, because best to act normally, he thinks, and then allows himself to relax infinitesimally when she smiles tremulously in return.

“Where are we?”

“Home.”

Her brow creases. “Lux?”

“Sadly, no. However, I do have accommodations here that rival my penthouse there for comfort, even if it’s not a patch on it for location.”

“Oh.”

The Detective’s eyes seem to be having a hard time staying open. No wonder, the poor thing. How long since she’s been allowed to sleep? Likely not since she arrived in Hell. Which—come to think of it—when was that? And how? He’s not buying that ‘mistake by some flunky in the Intake Department’ bollocks. 

And if there’s one soul he knows through and through it’s the Detective’s, and there’s not a touch of corruption on it.

His lips twist in a snarl. It’d seemed like a good idea at the time, forming a devilish legal division. What’s to bet they’ve found a loophole, dragging down souls on the basis of their feelings of guilt and ignoring their actual culpability? No such thing as a presumption of innocence in Hell. Naturally his Detective would feel guilty if she believed she’d been the cause of his death. But what had made her believe that? He’d sent her away before the battle. She’d gone.

Dromos, probably. He’s had a taste of power. Of freedom. Probably too much to have expected, that he’d go quietly. He’s always been schemer. That used to be one of the things Lucifer liked about him, why he’d promoted him. Well, times change. Processes change. If it _was_ him, Dromos will be receiving the Hell equivalent of a gold watch upon retirement. He won’t enjoy it. But Lucifer will.

Later, though. Right now, he needs to get the Detective—get them both—away from the avaricious, malevolent gazes of his subjects. He gathers her into his arms and steps carefully out of the room, his eyes glowing coals as he glares around at the gawking demons.

Lucifer turns her face gently to his chest and rests his hand lightly over her eyes, then launches into the air again. He should know better than to try to shield her though. She twists her face away from his hand, and he lets his hand fall away. The Detective’s head turns, but she doesn’t try to look down, just blinks up at the surrounding darkness for a few moments and then looks back up at him, her gaze trusting. Lucifer smiles down at her and his chest feels tight, as though his love for her is too vast to be contained, as though it’s going to burst out of him, and raze all of Hell with its power, like one of those nuclear blasts the humans used to go in for. Lucifer forces the thought away from him, he’d hate to set off something he’d regret later. Gazing down at his Detective, though, he’s not sure if he’d regret it at all.

“Lucifer?”

“Yes, Detective?”

“Are we… flying?”

“We are indeed.”

“Why?”

“I’m afraid I don’t have my Corvette down here.”

“Oh, okay.”

The Detective seems surprisingly unfazed by this news. Lucifer suspects she hasn’t really processed her reality, his suspicion is confirmed when she suddenly giggles, and cranes her head around in an attempt to look down. Lucifer tightens his arms around her. “What’s so funny?”

“I’m Lois Lane.”

“I hesitate to contradict you, Detective, but I’m afraid I’m no Superman. Well, not in the comic book sense, anyway.”

“No, I know. You’re an angel. That’s better.”

“A fallen angel.”

The Detective is looking past him now, her eyes wide with wonder. “Your wings….”

“What about them?”

“They’re beautiful.”

“Oh, well.”

“I can’t believe you cut them off. That’s what those scars were.” The Detective’s voice is wondering, as though she’s not quite present. “I thought your Dad did that to you.”

“Yes, well, we don’t need to talk about that now.”

“Where are we going?”

Lucifer hesitates. “My place,” he says.

“That’s nice.” Her eyes drift closed.

This time Lucifer’s landing is as light as a stray feather floating to its inevitable rest.

“Lucifer?”

The Detective sounds sleepy, and not overly concerned, and for a moment Lucifer can almost believe that they are really back in his penthouse in Lux, that this whole nightmare has been, well, a nightmare, and the coffee and Full English he’s carrying is real and not a constructed reality he’s willed into existence. He nudges the door open with his hip and enters his bedroom, holding the tray out. “Good morning, Detective,” he announces brightly, smiling a deliberately cheerful smile. It softens into something gentler as he absorbs the Detective’s adorably sleep-tousled appearance as she sits up in bed, yawning, and brushing the hair that’s falling over her face back out of the way.

“Is it?” she asks, looking around the room in confusion. “I could have sworn—”

Lucifer places the tray on her lap and sits down on the edge of the bed. “Eat up, Detective,” he urges her, reaching out to tuck a stray lock of hair behind her ear. “Nothing like a good breakfast to start the day,” he says, smiling approvingly when she reaches for the knife and fork. “Except of course for a really invigorating round of sex,” he adds and then beams as the Detective just shakes her head at him, a wry smile turning up the corners of her mouth.

He reaches for a couple of spare pillows and props them behind him and then leans back and watches as she digs in. He’ll have to return her to the earthly plane, and soon. Hell’s not designed to be… comfortable for humans, especially one who isn’t supposed to be here. An innocent. But she’s here now and he’s going to appreciate every moment, even that bit of egg yolk that’s clinging to the corner of her mouth.

“We’re not really in your apartment, are we?” the Detective says, when she’s cleaned her plate. Apparently being stuck in a Hell loop is good for the appetite. She wipes her mouth on a napkin and picks up the mug of coffee.

“No.”

“It’s not real.”

“No.”

The Detective eyes the mug she’s cradling in both hands. She takes a careful sip, and then a larger one. The coffee is still sitting at the precise temperature she prefers. Lucifer watches as she visibly decides not to ask.

“What now?” she says instead.

“I take you home.”

“Just like that?”

“Yes.”

“It’s that easy?”

Lucifer’s eyes sting, and he finds himself blinking away unexpected moistness. “Not easy,” he says roughly. 

“Lucifer.” The Detective leans forward and takes his hand. He clutches it gratefully.

“But not yet,” he says, and doesn’t try to hide the note of pleading in his voice.

“No,” she says, gently. “Not yet.”


End file.
